Page 27 of Unexpected Hero

His warm voice shakes me from my momentary melancholy. “Go ahead and take a seat. I’ll be right there.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Thank you for thanking me,” he quips. “That’s the third time in the same number of minutes. Message received.”

A gentle laugh bubbles up. Grabbing our iced coffees, I pick out a table in the corner. From my seat, I study his movements. He’s saying something quietly to the barista. A tiny flare of jealousy catches me off guard.

Stupid, Lettie.

The woman at the register passes him something, and I try not to stare.

But I’m compelled to study their interaction. I guess my small-town upbringing embedded nosiness in me after all. It’s the town motto to always be in everyone’s business. It’s written on the Welcome to Climax sign at the edge of town.

Kidding.

It says Welcome to Climax — If you leave, you’ll want to come again.

A few moments later, he approaches the table. There’s more of that stiffness in his gait. “Uh, would you mind switching seats with me?”

“Oookay,” I drawl as my eyes sweep around the room.

He paid for all this food and donated eighty dollars to my pathetic personal charity. He can have whatever seat he wants.

“I like to keep my back to the wall where I can see the entrance and exits,” he explains.

“Oh, I see.”

At least he has a reason, and it’s not just some psychosis. So far, no major red flags coming from him. They’re all coming from me.

Once he’s in his preferred seat, I notice the bag is missing. “Where’s the food?”

As if on cue, a hungry growl comes from my tummy. My cheeks warm. I hope to hell he didn’t hear that.

“She’s going to bring the sandwiches when they’re ready.”

“And the bag?”

“I had her put it in the cooler until we’re ready to leave so it stays fresh for you.”

For me.

Yep. He’s making sure I leave with more to eat. So damn sweet.

“Oh. That’s very considerate. Thank you.”

“That’s number four. You must be the most grateful woman I’ve ever met.”

I laugh, but he doesn’t join me. Wasn’t that a teasing joke? His brows draw in tight, making me feel bad. I hope he doesn’t think I was poking fun at him by laughing.

You are fucking up this date, girl.

Wait. Maybe it’s not a date. It’s just a pity meal.

Duh.

A good deed meal makes much more sense than this strikingly handsome man being so taken with me in all my basket case crying glory that he was compelled to ask me on a date. I am a charity case, after all.

Shaking off my disappointment, I address his point. “Well, I was raised with good Southern manners. If someone does you a kindness, you should show them your appreciation.”

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